


Hearsay

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fun, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So many words in the English language sound similar. For instance, the words “kick” and “kiss.” In the right circumstances, in the right frame of mind, a person could very well say one and mean the other. Or, a person could easily hear one, when it really was the other. But what happens when it occurs more than once? What happens when it keeps occurring? ...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the duo reached the registration table, John turned to Sherlock. “You know sometimes I could just kiss you,” he murmured.</p>
<p>Sherlock's eyes grew as wide as saucers, “Wha- what?”</p>
<p>“Sometimes I could just kick you,” John stage whispered. “You’re forty minutes late!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>... Hmmm. It begs the question: </p>
<p>Is John mis-speaking … or … is Sherlock mis-hearing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Embossed, cream-colored stationary … golden seal … official looking_ … Sherlock’s mind was in deduction mode as he lay sprawled on the sofa in the sitting room of 221B. Not too far from him, John was sitting comfortably in his own chair, silently reading something from the post. The corner of his mouth turning slightly upward and his eyes blinking slowly and softly. He then returned the pieces of stationary to the envelope,  tucked the entire parcel under some medical journals on the nearby desk, and went up to his bedroom to get ready for a pub night with Lestrade. 

Well, in Sherlock’s mind if that wasn’t an invitation to read the letter, then he didn’t know what was! As it turned out, John was among several doctors being honored by the Board of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for his outstanding achievements in the medical field. A banquet and awards ceremony were planned at the Corinthia hotel. Among the pieces of stationary included in the envelope was an RSVP card where John could indicate if he was attending alone or with a guest. After reading every last printed word, Sherlock returned the envelope to its hiding place and flopped back down onto the sofa. He’d have to wait to see what the good doctor would do but that didn’t stop him from formulating some thoughts …

_Perhaps John won’t go. No, he has to go. If anyone deserves to be recognized for his bravery … his caring … his intelligence … his kindness … it’s my John. “My?” Where did that—? … But will John go alone or will he take someone? A date, perhaps? Ugh. Not one of those insipid women from work. No. If anyone should accompany John, it should be me. Afterall, we’re best friends. And, according to John, best friends share the bad times and the good times with each other._

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his mind palace that he didn’t even hear John say “good-bye” and leave the flat. 

Two days passed and there wasn’t a peep from John about the banquet. Finally, Sherlock’s curiosity got the best of him.

“So, you received an important-looking envelope the other day,” Sherlock began. He was propped on a seat at the kitchen table viewing glass slides with his microscope. “Fancy stationary. Gold seal. Important. Obviously.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“What? … Oh, you mean the one from Barts?” inquired John, not turning around, as he was elbow-deep in soap suds washing about four-days worth of dishes. 

“Oh, is that who it was from?” Sherlock feigned ignorance. 

John smirked and continued, “Yes.” He wasn’t going to offer additional information and let Sherlock off-the-hook that easily, especially since John knew the detective had most likely read the letter.

“What do _they_ want?” Sherlock asked not-quite-so-nonchalantly as he would have hoped. 

“Well, it was an invitation of sorts,” John stated.

 “I see,” Sherlock answered.

 John continued washing, very aware that his flatmate’s laser-focus was on the back of his neck.

 “So what type of invitation?” Sherlock persisted, internally wincing at his insecure tone.

John was glad he was faced away from his friend, because the grin that broke out across his face was too large to hide. Finally, he shut off the water, dried his hands with a tea towel, steeled himself and turned around so he was facing Sherlock.

“Why don’t _you_ tell _me_?” John replied with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Since I’m pretty sure you’ve already read it.” 

Like a child with his hands caught in a jar of sweets, Sherlock’s face revealed his guilt. But just for a split second. Then he regained his composure and decided an “I’m- affronted-that-you’d-accuse-me” approach would be best. However, this only solidified John’s resolve as he crossed his arms and settled in for an epic stare-down.  

After a few minutes, Sherlock reluctantly conceded. “This is childish,” the detective spat.

“Yes, you are,” replied John, as his serious expression faltered into a chuckling grin. “Now what is it you really want to ask me, Sherlock?”

The younger man was taken aback. John was using his own deductive skills to get to the subtext that makes up most conversations. It caught Sherlock off-guard, which made John’s grin even wider.

“I, uh … it’s just that, I was wondering …  if you had decided to go,” Sherlock stammered, his mouth suddenly feeling parched. “And if so … uh … were you planning … to go … with … someone?” Sherlock blinked a few times. His brain mocked him. … _So eloquent, Holmes. Seriously, is “uh” even a word?_

John’s eyes relaxed and his gaze turned very soft as he replied, “Yes, I think I’d like to attend.” 

Sherlock watched as John looked down bashfully and began to shift his weight back and forth between his shuffling feet. “And I was hoping … I mean if you’re available,” John stammered, “I- I know you don’t really like that sort of thing. But, um, I was thinking maybe you’d like to go … with … me?” The sentence turned from a statement to a question in a matter of seconds as John raised his face to look expectantly at his friend.

As Sherlock tried to will his heart to calm down, his brain to reboot and his mouth to make a sound, he was confused as to why he was having this physical reaction. He also realized that he still hadn’t said anything and John was looking at him with a hopeful look that was turning swiftly into something that resembled dejection.

“Yes!” Sherlock suddenly blurted out, wanting to quash the fear he saw forming in John’s eyes. He cleared his throat, “I-I mean, yes, thank you,” Sherlock stated as calmly as he could. “I would be honored to accompany you.”

Relief and happiness spread instantly across John’s face as he simply replied, “Good. That’s good.” Ducking his head, John turned his back to Sherlock and began to walk into the sitting room when he murmured, “I’m looking forward to our date.”

Sherlock’s brain screeched to a halt and he nearly pulled a muscle in his neck as he turned to look at his retreating flatmate. “Wha- what did you say?” he inquired, his eyelids blinking uncontrollably.

John turned to face him and replied, “I’m looking forward to it, mate.” Then, he turned and plopped down into his comfy chair.

Sherlock finally got his blinking under control, however, he was left to process the psychological and physiological occurrences within the last several moments, not to mention John’s misstep … or was it his own?

_Did John just call me his date? He claims he said “mate” but I clearly heard “date.” … Didn’t I?… It sounded like “date.” Date. Mate. They sound similar. Why would I hear “date” if he didn’t say it? Does it have anything to do with the unusual thoughts I’ve been having about John— … No! That’s ridiculous.… Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I know what I heard. John’s probably tired and he just misspoke. Besides, it’s not a date. It’s just two friends celebrating an honor. Nothing to get worked up about. And by the way, why was I sputtering my words? And the elevated heart rate? And, the dry mouth?! I hope I’m not getting sick. I’ve got a million things to do, and …_

Soon, Sherlock’s mind had returned to thinking about “important” things like experiments, and murders and the micro-organisms awaiting their turn under his microscope. However, a few minutes later as he slid the final glass plate under the lens, he couldn’t help his wandering mind as it noted how the cluster of cells he was viewing looked exactly like John’s hair when he wakes up in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks after the invitation arrived …

_I’m late. Very late. John is going to be_ … Sherlock’s inner dialogue continued as the cab crept along in rush hour traffic. It was the evening of the awards banquet at which John was being honored and Sherlock had been due to meet his flatmate at the hotel. The pair had agreed to meet up at the event at a designated time—John being required to attend the pre-banquet “meet-and-greet,” (of which Sherlock wanted no part of) and Sherlock being called in by Lestrade to consult on a burglary case-gone-awry, which registered as a five in Sherlock’s mind and wouldn’t take long. However, the case quickly escalated into an eight, and the detective found himself having to do a little extra leg-work at the crime scene, especially since his blogger hadn’t accompanied him. The fact that John wasn’t by his side had put Sherlock into a state of irritation right out of the gate, which culminated in an impressive display of extreme multi-tasking as he simultaneously rattled off deductions, insulted Lestrade and most of his team, texted John that he’d be “a bit” late and hailed a cab. 

As Sherlock sat in the cab mentally cursing every person who was driving a vehicle in London at the moment, he brushed a stray piece of lint off his trousers and took a moment to admire his attire. He was dressed in a dark suit with monochromatic steel grey shirt (and tie) because in John’s words _“It’s an important event. You need to wear a tie. Please, Sherlock … for me.”_ And although Sherlock chose to whine and complain in the days leading up to the awards ceremony, he had to admit, his ensemble did look smart and he secretly hoped the doctor would be pleased. This thought brought him back to a group of perplexing items in John’s wing of Sherlock’s mind palace.

Within the last few months or so, Sherlock had been experiencing thoughts and feelings that he hadn’t experienced before. Thoughts and feelings that seemed to swirl around his flatmate. And every time he began to experience a particular thought or feeling, he’d place it on a shelf and store it away in his mind palace, promising himself that he’d examine it when he had some time.

So, since the cab didn’t seem to be making much forward progress at the moment, Sherlock decided to take a trip to his mind palace. John’s wing had grown over the last few months, and as Sherlock reached up to a high shelf to bring down one of the items to study, he couldn’t help but notice that the shelves were almost bending with the weight of all of these unstudied items. Items such as— _John smiled at me and my heart rate elevated_ and _John flirted with a woman at the coffee shop and I didn’t like it_ and _John told me I was amazing and my stomach felt funny_ and _John looks particularly fit today in those denims_. Sherlock was determined to find out why John’s behavior (and mere presence) was causing him to have certain reactions. In fact, Sherlock remembered the first such occurrence. It was about three months prior, during a case when he and John were pressed up against each other between some warehouse shelving units trying to outsmart an international arms dealer. The shelves were constructed in such a way that afforded the pair very little room to move. So, chest-to-chest they stood and Sherlock could feel John’s breaths, short and shallow, against his neck as they tried to remain as quiet as possible. However, the warmth of John’s body and breath began to have a strange effect on Sherlock. Not unlike what he experienced three weeks ago when he thought John had said the word “date.” _Interesting._

As Sherlock continued to deeply process through the items on the shelf, the detective was suddenly yanked from his mind palace by the cabbie’s voice threatening him if he didn’t leave the vehicle. How long he’d been sitting there, he couldn’t say. So, Sherlock paid the cabbie (with a sneer) then exited the cab, disappointed that his mental research had been interrupted. He then stood outside the front doors of the hotel, totally aware of his late arrival, wondering which John Watson would be greeting him upon his arrival—understanding friend; tipsy flatmate (John had mentioned something about an open bar at the event); or scolding Captain.  

When Sherlock entered the room where the reception was being held, his eyes scanned the crowd and alighted on a group of four men, three of whom were talking animatedly. He quickly and confidently deduced that the first man was a highly-distinguished neurosurgeon with a cheating wife and a high-strung, misbehaving cocker spaniel. The second was a GP, with a prescription drug habit and an affinity for hair product. And the third, was a vascular surgeon, dating an affluent American heiress and currently in the midst of declaring personal bankruptcy.

Sherlock’s heart stuttered a beat as he realized the fourth person in the group was John, who had been obviously ambushed by the trio. His facial expression was caught somewhere between an embarrassing blush and an aching cringe, his usual self-confidence floundering, which in Sherlock’s mind was completely unacceptable. As the detective approached the group he could only decipher the tail end of what probably had been a trying conversation.

“So, Johnny, looks like you’ve been busy since Barts,” said the neurosurgeon with a slight vindictive chuckle. “You’ve become a bit of a celebrity playing sidekick to that crazy detective.”

The rosy pink of John’s flushed cheeks began to deepen into a fiery red and his lips parted to unleash a linguistic fury.

Val, the GP, chimed in, “Well, if you believe his blog, the two of them are practically married.”

Before John could counter, a familiar voice spoke up behind him.

“Well, we’re not married, but we do live together,” Sherlock answered innocently, totally unaware of the double meaning.

He smiled hesitantly at John, who was staring at him with astonishment and (dare Sherlock hope) … pride? Sherlock took this as his cue to continue. “So sorry I’m late. Traffic is nearly impossible at this time of day.”

John’s face began to soften and Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of his friend. In fact, he wanted to show the other “gentlemen” in the group, just how important John was.

“By the way John, Detective Inspector Lestrade sends his thanks for your help on the Corrigan case. Another case closed, another life saved, thanks to Doctor Watson.” Sherlock waved his hand absentmindedly. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, we need to check in at the registration table.” He began to turn away but then got that familiar look in his eye and turned back around to face the three doctors. “Oh, and by the way,” he started with the GP, “Your staff knows about your drug addiction,” then looked at the vascular surgeon, “Maybe if you stopped betting on the ponies you wouldn’t have to file for bankruptcy,” and finally Sherlock faced the neurosurgeon, “If I were you, I’d put her on a leash … since she has a tendency to wander.”

Sherlock gave the men a quick insincere smile, then grabbed John’s wrist and the pair retreated quickly, winding their way to the registration area. The threesome they left behind stood stock still with facial expressions so blank they’d make the Mona Lisa look emotional.

When the duo reached the registration table, John turned to Sherlock. “You know sometimes I could just kiss you,” he murmured.

Sherlock's eyes grew as wide as saucers, “Wha- what?”

“Sometimes I could just kick you,” John stage whispered. “You’re forty minutes late!”

Although Sherlock did his best to maintain his composure, his thoughts were like a jumbled pot of beef stew.

_Kiss. I could have sworn John said “kiss.” Did I subconsciously hear “kiss?” Did he subconsciously say it? Kick. Kiss. … They sound similar. … It’s just like that “mate” “date” incident. But I really thought he said “kiss.” Does John want to kiss me? Do I want to kiss John? … Kiss. … John. … I wonder what that would feel— … Stop! … It must have been a mistake. Yes, that’s it. A mistake. An honest mistake. … But I don’t make mis— … Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s my best friend. Best friends don’t kiss each other. … Do they?… No. No, they don’t. Besides John is my very “I’m not gay” best friend. So, there it is. Maybe I just need my hearing checked. Probably some residual effect from that case last month. That’s it. I’ll get it checked and that’ll be it. Case closed._

Or, so Sherlock thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks after the banquet …

_An active imagination! … Me?! … My mind is not imaginative. … It’s logical!_ … Contrary to his own beliefs, Sherlock was having a very imaginative mental conversation with himself as he stood in the shower, leaning one hand against the wet tiles as the other one tugged at his water-laden curls. He was thankful for the hot water cascading over his lanky form, as it seemed to calm his nerves, which had been fine until about an hour ago. That’s when Sherlock had had a very lengthy and heated debate with a hearing specialist.

Because, the day after the banquet, Sherlock had made a decision. He knew he needed to have his hearing checked, if only to eliminate it as a possibility of what was causing these recent word mix-ups. However, he also knew that trying to obtain an appointment with a hearing specialist could take weeks, and patience wasn’t one of Sherlock’s strong suits. After an hour in his mind palace, another half hour of pacing, accompanied by an animated discussion with the Skull, Sherlock begrudgingly, and without John’s knowledge, contacted the only person he knew who had enough clout to make the appointment happen.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft uttered as he answered his mobile.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock clipped.

A dramatic pause then lingered until Sherlock gritted out, “I need a favor.”

“Oh?” the elder Holmes drawled.

Sherlock snarled. He could practically feel Mycroft’s smugness oozing out of the phone. “Yes. I need you to secure an appointment for me to meet with a hearing specialist as soon as possible.”

“For a case?” Mycroft interjected.

“In a matter of speaking,” replied Sherlock.

“Why don’t you ask Dr. Watson?” scoffed Mycroft. “He probably has connections in the medical field that far surpass mine.”

Silence from the other end of the call.

“Ohhhh, I see then. So you don’t want John to know. Hmm. Perhap it involves him?” Mycroft continued haughtily, as if he had just discovered a treasure. “Keeping secrets, Sherlock? Tsk Tsk. I thought you two were past that.”

Sherlock made a quick trip to his mind palace where he proceeded to slap the sarcasm right out of Mycroft’s mouth (repeatedly). He then returned to his right mind and with clenched jaw and every bit of restraint he could muster, addressed his brother, “Will. You. Make. The. Appointment?”

Mycroft, who had quickly tired of riling up his younger sibling and was anxious to end the call, simply stated, “I’ll text you the details of the appointment. Oh, and I’ll text you the details of that international spy ring that you’ve refused to help us with … until now. Good day, brother mine.”

Sherlock practically barked Mycroft’s name before he heard the line go dead. He knew before he had even made the call that he would owe his brother for the favor, and he hated it, the feeling of being on Mycroft’s leash. But Sherlock had weighed the options and knew it was a small price to pay if it could help get this business with John cleared up. And that thought brought a sigh of relief from the detective. However, that relief was short-lived because two weeks later, the appointment turned out to be a disaster. …

Test after test was completed with no conclusive evidence that Sherlock had any type of hearing loss or difficulty. Sherlock had gone into the appointment convinced that it was a hearing issue. So, when he was told that the results were to the contrary, and those results were based on “irrefutable” facts, he was extremely frustrated, to say the least. Every time the medical professional spoke, Sherlock countered. Back and forth it continued until Sherlock stood up and began to pace, mumbling to himself. And, that’s when the poor doctor made the monumental mistake of suggesting that maybe the detective had an overactive imagination and perhaps a psychological evaluation was in order.

Sherlock was so irate that in addition to unleashing a wrath of less-than-complimentary deductions on the doctor, he also deduced one nurse to tears and another to almost punch him, not to mention a very red-faced receptionist to flee down the hallway in extreme embarrassment. Sherlock then stewed in the back of a cab, huffed 17 steps up to his flat, made some sort of growling noise as John greeted him, slammed the door to the loo and proceeded to take a very long, very hot shower.

So as he stood under the hot, steamy waterfall, Sherlock considered his options.

_Okay. Facts. Look at the facts. So, I apparently don’t have a hearing problem. I obviously don’t have a psychological problem that needs addressed. … Do I? … Absolutely not! That doctor is an idiot. Anyway, John doesn’t seem to be mis-speaking. Every time I question him about a word, he answers with another that sounds similar. Should I tell John what’s happening? The word mix-ups? But it’s beyond words, isn’t it? Those other thoughts … even … feelings … are creeping in. Maybe those thoughts are causing my brain to translate the words differently. … Should I tell John about the words? … about the feelings? Should I tell him how all of a sudden his presence makes my stomach flutter? my heartbeat increase? and … NO! … No. … He’ll get upset and leave and then I’ll lose my best friend. I’ll lose … everything. …I can’t lose him. Not now. Not after everything we’ve—_

A sudden knock at the door brought him out of his intense reflection as he heard John’s voice calling, “Sherlock? Are you about done in there? I’m starving and I want to order dinner.”

“Y-yes. Just give me a moment,” Sherlock stuttered.

Turning off the taps, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in his dressing gown, realizing that he wasn’t any closer to solving the “case.”

John was just outside the door asking him to make up his mind from which restaurant they were going to order dinner.

“I was thinking we could either order from the Chinese place down the street,” said John in a slightly muffled voice behind the door. “Or, the pizza shop two blocks over. You pick. I—”

Just then Sherlock opened the door, water droplets hanging precariously from his dark, curly mop. “I need to borrow your hair dryer,” he stated, as his sentence mingled with the end of John’s.

“—want to touch your hair,” John finished his sentence as he stared at Sherlock.

“What … did … you … say?” Sherlock slowly asked, with every word taking precedence.

“I don’t much care,” John replied. “You pick the restaurant.” He then turned and walked back down the hallway to the sitting room leaving Sherlock staring at his backside—John’s perfectly fascinating backside with John’s perfectly-fitted trousers cupping John’s perfectly-muscled arse and his hips moving, no, swaying with every step. And suddenly, Sherlock (whose breathing had become labored) really, really, _really_ needed to return to the shower and take care of some business that had suddenly … crept up.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter contains case and canon-typical violence, including John hanging for dear life off the roof of a building. If this is a trigger for you, please skip this chapter.

————

Two weeks after the hair dryer incident …

Unfortunately, John was on the losing end of a roof-top battle, but rather than tell the loud-mouthed thugs where Sherlock was, he decided to take the beating. He was then pushed off the side of the roof and left to hang there by his pair of accosters, who decided they didn’t have time to watch the inevitable, and attempted to leave the rooftop by way of the main stairwell. Now, John hung, dangling off the side of the building, wind blowing his jacket and gently contorting his body like a discarded Union Jack. He struggled to keep ahold of the roof’s edge but his strength was dwindling. 

Suddenly, a phantom-like hand clamped tightly around his wrist, jolting his body and halting the gravitational pull that was playing tug-of-war with it. Somehow his back had maneuvered toward the building, so he couldn’t see the person whose grip was tightening on his wrist like a metal handcuff. Suddenly his body was moving slightly upward, his arm feeling like it would detach from the shoulder socket at any moment. The movement continued and he found himself trying unsuccessfully to twist his hips so he could face the side of the building and perhaps grasp something with his left hand, thus aiding in his own rescue.

“Stop flailing and just reach up with your other hand!” a desperate plea from a familiar baritone came washing down upon his ears.

John strained to look up and saw a tuft of black curls protruding over the side of the roof. He garnered the rest of his strength and reached upward to grasp Sherlock’s wrist and arm. As he did so, his body swung back around to face the building and he was able to brace his feet on the bricks, spider-like, as his ascension continued. Finally, the overhanging ledge tapped John under his arms and he was able to leverage his weight as Sherlock grabbed his back and waist and scraped him over the edge, and they both fell into an ungraceful heap of blogger-detective. 

The pair scrambled to untangle themselves from each other, trying to regain their composure. John leaned with his back against the short, concrete ledge, knees bent, head tilted upward, gulping for air as he unconsciously rubbed his sore wrists. Sherlock crawled toward his friend and rolled over to lie down, his back flush against the flat, damp roof, eyes closed, as he tried to restore normal breathing.

“Are you ok?” John gasped.

“Yes,” answered Sherlock.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I told you I was,” Sherlock snapped.

“But, Sherlock, it’s just that …”

“John!”

“You have scratches all over your face and the area around your eye is starting to swell!”

Until now, Sherlock hadn’t really been aware of the after-effects of what he had to deal with, or rather, who he had to deal with, in order to get up the stairwell and onto the roof to save John. Taking a blow to the face and a few punches to the ribs were nothing to speak of in his estimation. The adrenaline had kept the tightness and pain from manifesting themselves. However, as John now reached out to gently touch his cheek, Sherlock flinched and became acutely aware of how much his face ached.

“I think I’ll take you to bed,” John spoke breathlessly.

Sherlock audibly gasped and his eyes (or at least the one that wasn’t swollen) went wide. _Bloody Hell, am I concussed, too?_ “Wh- What did you s-say?” Sherlock stammered.

John slowly pulled his hand away and looked at Sherlock with an indecipherable gaze. “I think you raked your head.”

Sherlock stared at him, unblinking, a small crease forming between his brows.

“Sherlock?” John inquired.

Sherlock looked away, the mental processor in his mind churning and grinding. 

_Why does this keep happening?! It’s as if John is playing a trick on me. Even if John was clever enough to concoct such a scheme, which he isn’t, he wouldn’t take it this far. Would he? … Maybe I do need psychological evaluation. … No! I am sane! I am rational! My mind is sharp! Okay, just calm down. Here are the facts: My hearing is fine. … John isn’t gay. … I am sane. … I can’t tell him about this or he’ll leave. … So, there’s only one thing left to do …  just delete it. Delete everything. Yes, good. Very good. That’s what I’ll do. That’s the solution. The only solution. I’ll delete it all._

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock sighed sadly as he slowly pushed himself up off the surface of the roof. But before he could turn completely toward the stairwell, John’s hand grabbed Sherlock’s forearm, and Sherlock was forced to face his flatmate.

“Are you sure?” John asked softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, as he fell into a trance gazing at John’s deep, blue eyes; his long, blonde eyelashes; his strong, sturdy face; and his thin, wet lips. 

And suddenly … Sherlock didn’t want to delete any of it.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks after the incident on the roof …

_Blue shirt? No. Plum shirt? Hmm … Maybe. Why are we having all of these people over anyway? …_ Sherlock’s thoughts were as unruly as his curls were behaving at that moment. John had insisted that they host a Christmas Eve party for friends and family because _“It’s Christmas, Sherlock. It’s a time for celebrating with people you care about.”_ Of course, in Sherlock’s mind if that was the criteria for a Christmas party then his own invitation list would include only John and Mrs. Hudson. (And if the truth be told, the latter was even an uncertainty.) It most certainly wouldn’t include the gaggle of people who were currently tromping up the steps and filling 221B with all the noise, noise, noise. He could hear Molly’s squeals and Lestrade’s gravelly timbre, and then he thought he heard two voices that made him stop his pacing. _Tell me it isn’t so. …_

Suddenly, John called through the detective’s closed bedroom door. “Sherlock, come out here. Your parents just arrived.”

_Ugh! I knew it._ Sherlock began to pace again wondering if it would be prudent to just sneak himself out the bedroom window, down the fire escape and make a run for it, trying to avoid the tedious night ahead. But he was pretty sure with the recent snow that the fire escape would be hazardous, not to mention, his footprints would be traced. Still, he contemplated his options.

However, he knew if he didn’t attend the party, in his own flat, with his very merry flatmate, that John would be furious. But more than that, John would be disappointed. So, the detective did what he’d done numerous times in the past. He finished dressing, smoothed the lines of his shirt as he looked at himself in the mirror, and whispered, “Into battle.”

As the detective made his way into the sitting room he observed that their flat was completely filled with slightly inebriated guests—family and friends—gorging themselves on delicious food and celebrating loudly with conversation and laughter. He was greeted by shouts of “It’s about time,” “Oh Sherlock, you decided to join us,” and the like.

His parents were the first to accost him, for about 15 minutes, wanting to know every detail of his life since they’d seen him last. Then he was cornered by Lestrade who quizzed him with questions about a recent case, which was a “two” at most. Finally, he was forced to listen to Mrs. Hudson prattle on about his recent experiment that left orange marks on the ceiling and an indecipherable odor that wouldn’t dissipate in the stairwell. Sherlock excused himself and skulked to the kitchen where he proceeded to pour himself a glass of water and drink it very slowly as he stood by the sink and closed his eyes. After taking a few moments to regroup his thoughts, Sherlock turned to re-join their guests.

As he stood in the threshold between the kitchen and sitting room, Sherlock noticed John talking with Molly. He was wearing a soft, tan, cashmere jumper (one that Sherlock had bought for him because _“If you insist on wearing jumpers, John, than at least wear cashmere.” _), and the color complemented John’s skin tone giving him the aura of a warm, creamy coffee. Both of John’s hands were casually tucked into the pockets of his trousers making him appear younger. The room was lit mostly with candles and fairy lights, which made John’s silvery-blonde hair shimmer. But it was his face that Sherlock noticed most particularly. John’s face was soft and relaxed, virtually wrinkle-free, except for the laugh lines that were the consequence of something Molly had said. John looks … happy … genuinely happy, thought Sherlock. And in that moment, Sherlock remembered why he was enduring this party. Why he had endured so much in the past and why he would continue to endure. The answer was simply: John. Sherlock would do anything for John and his happiness.__

And then, the detective found himself with that reoccurring funny feeling in his stomach. He suddenly felt warm all over, his head felt dizzy and he wanted to touch John, to stroke his face, to kiss his lips. But, the feelings went deeper than that. Sherlock wanted to tell John that he was the most important person in his life and that he’d gladly spend the rest of his days by his blogger’s side if he’d let him. Sherlock finally understood the thoughts and feelings of the past few months and realized it was really just the culmination of what had been simmering for the past eight years. It was love. And it was scary and thrilling and confusing and wonderful.

At that moment, John turned and caught his eye; the look on his face was one of slight confusion as he stared at the detective. Then John’s facial expression turned to one of understanding as he mouthed silently, “I love you.”

Sherlock nearly grabbed the wall for support. His mouth formed a perfect “O” as he stared awestruck at John. Just then, Mrs. Hudson walked by and gave Sherlock a brief kiss on the cheek. “Above you,” she stated, as her gaze drifted to the mistletoe under which Sherlock was cluelessly standing. He looked up with heartbreaking disappointment as it dawned on him …

_“Above you.” Oh. … I— I thought … I guess that must have been what John said. Right. I misheard again. My mind is playing tricks on me. No, it can’t … I can’t. It’s just that I thought maybe John said “I love you”— maybe he felt the same. ... Well … I forgot for a moment. … I forgot who I was. … I forgot who we are. John wouldn’t say that. … He’s not— … He wouldn’t say that … to me. …_

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by John standing right in front of him, a soft smile played on his mouth. Sherlock looked at him with a puzzled gaze as John leaned up and placed a chaste (but-with-a-hint-of-something-more) kiss on his lips. Sherlock’s brain unsuccessfully tried to stay ahead of the current situation but the feel of John’s lips proved to be too much. When John finally pulled away, Sherlock was left standing still as a statue, but with ragged breath and rapid pulse.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the awards ceremony,” John said with a slight giggle and a smile. He reached up with his right hand and placed it on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, gently running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “I was also wondering if I might … _touch your hair._ ” Then John smirked and cocked an eyebrow, “And perhaps later, after all of these _tedious_ people leave, I could … _take you to bed?_ ”

Sherlock stood in disbelief; his understanding of the situation gradually coming into focus. He had been outsmarted, outwitted and outplayed. He had been led down one path only to be diverted onto another. He had questioned his hearing and even his own sanity. And it was all done by an unassuming former army doctor, his flatmate, his best friend, who was standing before him now with a twinkle in his eyes and the most adorable smile on his face, and Sherlock felt as if he was melting.

There was no use trying to deny that he had fallen for John’s plan, scheme, whatever one might want to call it. If Sherlock said that he knew it all along, he would just look foolish. If he walked off in a huff (which he really didn’t want to do because John was winding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and the feeling was glorious!) he would just look like an arse. No. Sherlock had been cleverly duped, and instead of feeling put out or embarrassed, he felt intense admiration for John’s cleverness. Sherlock’s face broke slowly into a smile—a genuine, for-John-only smile.

John’s facial expression then turned to what could only be defined as desire. “And, I do love you,” he whispered with quiet, yet fierce determination. “So very much.”

Then, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of. The only thing that made sense. He gently grasped the front of John’s jumper, slowly leaning forward so barely a millimeter separated their lips, then took his own voice down to an eerily low octave and quietly breathed, “Brilliant.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had this fluffy idea floating around in my mind for awhile and thought I'd try writing something multi-chapter. Hope it brings you a smile and a little fun today. :)


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